tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24318156266001618472016-06-12T11:09:24.034-04:00Repay the GiftErica Tobeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11278650248080482982noreply@blogger.comBlogger13125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2431815626600161847.post-88826123311560355162015-10-15T19:15:00.000-04:002015-10-15T19:15:54.207-04:00Why Coming Out Day Matters<span style="color: #141823; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19.32px;">5 years ago on National Coming Out Day I read a message posted in jest on an&nbsp;acquaintance's&nbsp;Facebook&nbsp;page by her&nbsp;long time girlfriend. It said:&nbsp;</span></span><br /><div style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 19.32px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 19.32px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">&nbsp;"I have something to tell you. I want to be more than "just friends" because...I'm gay."</span></span></div><div style="color: #222222;"><div><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The conversation that followed was pretty incredible. People sharing experiences and telling folks that having these conversations with people they care about was a brave and courageous thing to do. The original poster wrote:&nbsp;</span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #141823; line-height: 16.08px;">"I really have had this conversation in the past, and it was hard and scary. It's great to be able to joke around now, but my heart goes out to everyone who is truly struggling to have this conversation. You can do it, and you are going to be ok!"</span><span style="color: #141823; line-height: 19.32px;"><br /></span></span></div></div><div style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 16.08px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 16.08px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The thing is, I was struggling to have that exact conversation. I had developed an incredible friendship with a woman that for almost 6 months had felt more and more like a relationship. I didn't know if she was gay. I didn't really know if I was gay, though I had opened myself up to the possibility of being in a relationship with her. As far as I knew, she had no idea how I felt.&nbsp; Which left the ball in my court. I had confided in a few friends, one who encouraged me to, in the words of the great Billy Joel, "Tell Her About It."<b>&nbsp;</b></span></span></div><div style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 16.08px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #141823;"><span style="line-height: 16.08px;">After reading that&nbsp;Facebook&nbsp;conversation I decided to take the plunge.</span></span><b style="color: #141823; line-height: 16.08px;">&nbsp;</b><span style="color: #141823;"><span style="line-height: 16.08px;">Late one night after a particularly lovely day with this friend I crafted a private&nbsp;Facebook&nbsp;message. (I'm an internal&nbsp;processor, that was all the bravery I could muster.) I typed and typed and sent the message late at night, after all reasonable people had gone to bed. I confessed to having a crush on her, to being scared about telling her, to being worried that it would ruin our friendship. Her response came the next day, it was honest and sweet, and basically said I need time. (She also rewarded me a bazillion "bravery points"). The following weekend she let me down. Two months later she admitted having feelings for me. Three months after that we really started dating. It took a while to get all of our ducks in a row, because this is hard work. Telling the world you are something other than straight is hard. Sometimes telling our families is really hard. Sometimes telling our employers or co-workers is hard. Sometimes telling our friends is hard. The list goes on and on.&nbsp;</span></span></span></div><div style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 16.08px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="color: #222222;"><span style="color: #141823; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 16.08px;">This is why we need to have Pride Days, and National Coming Out Days, and Spirit Days. We need to give people who feel safe and secure saying "I'm gay" or "I'm in love with this woman" to say it, and maybe it will give someone else the bravery to say it too. I'm so thankful for those few friends who encouraged me at the start to share my feelings, and extra grateful for the&nbsp;Facebook&nbsp;conversation that transpired between people I hardly knew, that gave me hope and courage. After&nbsp;Ali and I started dating (yes, it was Ali) and we made it "Facebook Official" I got several messages from women I knew confiding in me that they might have feelings for other woman. I was happy to be able to share my experience and tell them "you can do it, and you are going to be ok," and to pass on a few of my bravery points.&nbsp;</span></span></div>Erica Tobeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11278650248080482982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2431815626600161847.post-39349175148709677482009-12-05T22:22:00.005-05:002009-12-05T22:43:08.253-05:00A Word of Thanks<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZK3niAD_Myg/Sxsli8DyAMI/AAAAAAAABvo/pWtgmUzaPCY/s1600-h/109_4108.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZK3niAD_Myg/Sxsli8DyAMI/AAAAAAAABvo/pWtgmUzaPCY/s320/109_4108.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411960659383550146" border="0" /></a>Below is a letter I wrote to be incorporated into a quilt that some volunteers made earlier this year to show their love and appreciation for <a href="http://www.campsunshine.org/">Camp Sunshine.</a><br /><br />Camp Sunshine is a retreat in Casco, Maine where families who have critically ill children can go and have fun! The sessions are totally free for families, and is often the only respite any of them get while their children are ill. They also run two bereavement sessions each year for families whose children have lost their battle. Needless to say, everyone who goes to camp falls in love with camp.<br /><br />Read my letter, and then read on to see how you can help!<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);"><br />I think too often it is the volunteers who get all the thanks around here,when in reality we should be thanking all of you for so many things.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">We thank you for greeting us with giant hugs.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">We thank you for letting us hear your stories.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">We thank you for having the nerve to get on stage to sing and dance and let loose.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">We thank you for running back to your rooms 100 times a day for bathing suits, towels and sneakers.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">We thank you for unlimited text messaging plans so your children can be in contact with us year round.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">We thank you for not getting upset when we let the kids “talk smack” on the volleyball court, when we feed them too many marshmallows, or keep them up all night during the camp out.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">We thank you for giving us a run for our money in the prank call department.</span><br /><a style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ZK3niAD_Myg/SxsjeOq7JHI/AAAAAAAABvg/kFfBcR-XK1A/s1600-h/109_4140.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; clear: both; float: right;" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ZK3niAD_Myg/SxsjeOq7JHI/AAAAAAAABvg/kFfBcR-XK1A/s320/109_4140.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">We thank you for laughter, and we thank you for tears.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">We thank you for giving us something to look forward to several times a year.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">We thank you for sharing all of your children with us, the ones we have met, and the ones we only know in spirit.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">We thank you for letting us hold your babies, and for letting us watch them grow up into wonderful young people.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">Most importantly, we thank you for opening up your hearts, and your lives, and allowing us all to become family.</span><br /><br /><br /><br />Camp Sunshine is truly an amazing place, but in order to keep offering award winning experiences year round we need YOUR help. My good friend Joey Cerato started a fundraiser 5 years ago (when we has just a tiny little boy). His idea was to get a few friends together, collect pledges and jump into the ocean on New Years Day. Sounds ridiculous, but his plunge alone has raised over $87,000 for Camp Sunshine, and it has inspired other people to do the same all over the country.<br /><br />So what can you do? I'm not asking you to plunge...it's seriously not fun at all. It's freezing and wet, and cold, and windy, and sandy, and just really gross in general. I do that part, because I know how important Camp Sunshine really is. All I need from you is a little money. I have set a goal of $500 this year, and think, with your help I can really do it. All you have to do is follow <a href="http://www.freezinforareason.com/members/member.php?mem_id=497">this link</a>, type in your info and away you go. No donation is too small, or too big. Let me know if you have any questions! And THANK YOU all in advance!!<br /><div style="clear: both; text-align: right;"><a href="http://picasa.google.com/blogger/" target="ext"><img src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbp.gif" alt="Posted by Picasa" style="border: 0px none ; padding: 0px; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 50%; -moz-background-clip: -moz-initial; -moz-background-origin: -moz-initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: -moz-initial;" align="middle" border="0" /></a></div>Erica Tobeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11278650248080482982noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2431815626600161847.post-68827304895584056332009-09-21T20:04:00.003-04:002009-09-21T21:29:00.520-04:00A Letter from 12 Year-Old EricaRecently I have acquired several rubber maid containers of old memorabilia that got left behind at my parents house. You know you are getting old when your parents drop off everything you had left at their house. (I suppose it could also be related to the divorce...but whatever.) ANYWAY, in these containers is everything I thought was important enough to save from middle school to my early college days. This has been nothing short of a hilarious adventure.<br /><br />Some things in the bins include:<br />old birthday cards (including one were my dad wrote that I was 13, crossed it out and wrote 14)<br />the playbills to every show I've ever seen (there are lots)<br />my shot records (very handy)<br />many many many letters and postcards from friends<br />notes passed in church (did we EVER pay attention, or were we just good at multi-tasking?)<br />USM veiwbook, along with my acceptance letter<br />old photos<br />many pages of Japanese homework, and my full yearbook write up translated into Japanese (all of which I can read...but have NO IDEA what it means)<br /><br />I've also found a stack of very special letters. You see, during youth group at the beginning of every year we all sat down and wrote letters to ourselves. The letters, as I remember were to reflect on the previous year, and look ahead to the next year. We were given some scripture verses to reflect on, and time to write these letters, which would be mailed to us at the beginning of the next year. The most interesting letter that I encountered (and the only one I would share with all of you) is written by 12 year-old me. Here it is, in it's entirety, without all the spelling mistakes, because I can't type like that.<br /><br />Sunday<br />January 8th, 1995<br />12 years old<br /><br />Dear Erica,<br />1) Be Kind, treat others as I want to be treated<br />2) Love those who hate<br />3) Be nice to everyone (don't fight with family)<br />4) Keep room clean<br />5) Do all homework first<br />6) Be more patient<br />7) Don't always want (greedy) don't put myself first. Not that I really do.<br /><br />This year I was confirmed into this church. I really like this church and the people too. My mom was pleased but my dad never was very religious, come to think of it I don't know if I even ever told him. We had a little luncheon with Aunt Sharon, Nana, and Aunt Nancy. I think I'm a good person, I try. I've gotten better over the years.<br /><br />See (read) ya next year "96"<br />Erica around here it's Caca, Kuck or just Ka (will I have a new name?) 96=?+Answers<br /><br /><br />The back was the best part- I wrote only a few words, but they were the best words of all it said:<br /><br />"Cool" Words as of January "95"<br />Anus (which I spelled Anis)<br />Moron<br /><br /><br />Was I the most awesome 12-year-old or WHAT?? I really just needed to share that with all of you, even if you don't laugh as hard as I have for the last 2 hours. Seriously though, why did I think it was a good idea to write anus on my church letter. WOW!Erica Tobeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11278650248080482982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2431815626600161847.post-89197472667960213702008-10-26T15:09:00.004-04:002008-10-26T15:55:41.231-04:00The Cab Driver<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ZK3niAD_Myg/SQTAtQ7laKI/AAAAAAAABLc/YhofgRht4_0/s1600-h/109_1910.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ZK3niAD_Myg/SQTAtQ7laKI/AAAAAAAABLc/YhofgRht4_0/s320/109_1910.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261542148547111074" border="0" /></a>Last weekend I went to Augusta to spend the weekend with my family and (most importantly) to see my nephews. I'd been planning on this trip for a few weeks since nephew #2 was born. I had been buying clothes and books to bring up for nephew #1's first birthday. At the beginning of September, I found a great deal on a snowsuit for nephew #1 and I was really excited to finally get to deliver it to him. (Even though 1 year old babies don't really care about snow suits).<br /><br />On Friday afternoon I was, as usual, running behind schedule, and packing in a hurry. I was taking the new bus (only $13 to Augusta, and WAY less sketchy than Greyhound), and wanted to be sure to get there a bit early in case I misread the schedule or anything. I ended up taking the metro bus to the station, and half way there I realized that I had left the snowsuit hanging in my bedroom. I considered forgetting it and mailing it to them at a later time, but I REALLY was stuck on making sure they had it. (Besides what good was the red and brown hat without the snowsuit to match?) So I decided to go home and get it. Good thing I had left early! I could not take the metro bus to the apartment and get back in time, so I decided just to take a taxi home.<br /><br />Generally, if I were to call a cab I would call ABC Taxi because the cabs are bright orange and easy to spot coming down the road. But as I went out of the station there were a line of taxis waiting to pick people up as they got off their bus, so I just got into the next available cab. I asked if the driver if he would take me to my apartment, wait outside for me to get something, and then bring me back to the bus station. (Do cab drivers usually do this?) He said yes, and off we went.<br /><br />For some reason I sat in the front seat of the van, I don't ever do that, and I'm not sure why I did that day. As we started to drive I explained to the driver (Harry) my predicament, and we chatted about all sorts of things. (I also generally don't talk to cab drivers either). Harry was an older man, probably in his 60's, with grey hair, a plaid shirt, jeans, suspenders, and no teeth.<br /><br />Eventually, he asked me where I worked and I told him about working in the day shelter, and he replied:"Oh, you might be seeing me over there soon." I said, "I hope not." He confessed that driving a taxi no longer paid the oil bill and he didn't know what to do. He said that he has been going to the food pantry in South Portland but that they only give out food once a month. I told him about our food pantry, and how we serve three meals a day for anyone who needs it. He asked tons of questions about where we were located and which entrance to use, and what to expect when he got there. At that moment I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be, and that maybe forgetting the snow suit wasn't much of a coincidence at all.<br /><br />Conversation drifted to other things, but as I was gathering my things he seemed genuinely grateful for the information that I had given him. Before I left he gave me his business card and I gave him all the cash (about 3 times the cab fare) that I had and told him to have a good day.<br /><br />I told this story to my dad and he insisted that I am too nice, and that Harry was probably telling those "sob stories" to everyone in hopes for a large tip, a thought that NEVER ONCE entered my mind. Either way I'm sure he needed that money more than I did.Erica Tobeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11278650248080482982noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2431815626600161847.post-10211480401470098572008-10-01T20:43:00.002-04:002008-10-01T21:16:40.044-04:00Identity CrisisI think I'm going nuts.<br /><br />I was at the farmers market today during my lunch break and I heard someone yell "Amanda!" and I turned to respond. I am now answering to the name Amanda.<br /><br />There's this really sweet older man at the shelter who thinks my name is Amanda. I don't know why, and I'm sure at some point I told him otherwise. However, sometimes things get really busy and you don't pay 100% attention to what is going on, and I think, on one of these occasions I must have responded to him calling me Amanda.<br /><br />The thing is, he when he talks he uses people's names way too frequently. For example:<br /><br />Erica: Hey Bob, How's it going today? (I changed his name to protect the innocent)<br />Bob: Hi Amanda, I'm great, Amanda. How are you, Amanda?<br />Erica: Pretty good, can I help you?<br />Bob: Yeah, Amanda, do you mind letting me into my locker?<br />Erica: Sure let me grab the keys.<br />Bob: Thanks a lot Amanda, I really appreciate that Amanda.<br /><br />And on and on and on...<br /><br />The thing is, he's so nice, and it's gone on for a few weeks now (maybe longer) so I don't know what to do about it. I'm sure he would be cool with it if I told him otherwise, but I'd feel silly because I've been answering to it for so long. (Apparently long enough that I'm responding to it in other places).<br /><br />So, what do I do? What would you do? Part of me has no problem letting him call me Amanda, but sooner or later someone else might notice, and it could become awkward.<br /><br />Either that or I'm going to start signing checks with "Amanda."<br /><br />Never a dull moment!<br /><br />Later Days Friends,<br /><br />Erica (Unless you want to call me something else)Erica Tobeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11278650248080482982noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2431815626600161847.post-65675551595767825222008-05-18T22:27:00.007-04:002008-10-23T14:55:02.443-04:00As time goes by, the fire still burns<span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255);"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 102);font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >I can't believe it's been so long since I've posted anything for my trustee readers. It was a loooonnng winter, but I'm back now, and better than ever! I'd like to thank Allen for sparking my re-entry into blog land, by publicly (on the internet) calling me rude. I maybe rude, but I will prove that I am not a giant dork by now posting an awesome story...instead of a story about a plant whose name is the coolest thing about it. ANYWAY, enjoy!</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 102);font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 102);font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >It all started with an unexpected visitor from Indiana. He came to Maine last weekend to stalk (I mean visit) one of the students I went to Louisiana with this Spring. We decided to give him a big warm welcome in the form of a bonfire in the student's yard off Washington Ave in Portland. It seemed at first like it would be a quiet night. There were only a handful of us there, and it was pretty casual. Until the time came to actually start the fire.<br /><br />Turns out Indiana boy had NO CLUE how to start a fire, he didn't have any paper, or sticks or anything, only huge logs they purchased at the store. We critically watched him fail for over a half an hour, until he went inside to use the facilities, and then we took over. We searched the yard for anything smaller than a log to burn, and found a few arm loads of sticks.<br /><br />I promptly got to work, putting my years of camp experience to good use. However, even the best camper can't start a fire with damp materials...by this time I was starting to doubt that this fire was ever going to happen....UNTIL....we made an amazing discovery, doritos are extremely flammable. That's right friends, we started a camp fire with doritos!!<br /><br />So the fire was going great, Indiana boy had fallen asleep and we were chatting quietly and enjoying the warmth, until, out of no where a group of self identified stoners showed up at our camp fire. They were entertaining for sure, but also demanding, and ask me to make them all smores. It was all downhill from there.<br /><br />I have a system for making smores, Which involves a little technique where I use 2 marshmallows to sandwich the chocolate, so that it gets extra gooey/melty/delicious. The stoners loved them, but I was getting tired, and apparently a little careless. Marshmallows started burning, and you can't make smores with burnt marshmallows, so I was getting frustrated, and of course, making the situation worse.<br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 102);font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 102);font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >Now I've got two marshmallows roasting over the fire, being prepared for their amazing entry into the sandwich of goodness, when all of a sudden, they ignite. I pull them out of the fire, and somehow, as if infused with magical jumping powder they fly off the stick onto my hand/arm/semi-new-jacket. They were now aflame, attached to my skin, and I don't know WHAT to do. I feel like I just watched them burn for a while before realizing what was going on. My "friends" of course are laughing their heads off. (One of them claims that she was yelling "stop, drop, and roll" though that thought never crossed my mind. </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 102);font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 102);font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >Finally it dawns on me that probably watching the sizzling sugary goo is a bad idea, and I should make an attempt to stop it. So I do what I think of first, and try to pull my arm out of my jacket, but that doesn't work, because, well, I'm on fire, and very very sticky. Finally, one of the stoner girls comes to my rescue and puts the fire out. That's right, the stoner girl saved my life. I ended up a little scorched, but otherwise ok. </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 102);font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 102);font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >I'd be lying if I told you it was the first time I had set myself or a fleece jacket on fire. Probably won't be the last time either. </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 102);font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 102);font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >Moral of the story: Never doubt the power of doritos and people under the influence of illegal substances. </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 102);font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 102);font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >Hopefully, that story will satisfy you all for a short time. I'll make an attempt to post again soon (at least less than 6 months from now.)</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 102);font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 102);font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >Later Days, </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 102);font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 102);font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >Erica</span><br /></span></span></span>Erica Tobeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11278650248080482982noreply@blogger.com58tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2431815626600161847.post-34474664688106351642007-12-09T22:00:00.003-05:002008-10-23T15:00:36.034-04:00Free Fare Friday<span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 102);font-family:times new roman;" ><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 102);">Maine is doing this great thing between Thanksgiving and New Year's Day where all local public transportation in the state is free. Totally free, no trick, no limitations, just trying to reduce some carbon emissions, and get people hooked on public transportation. Personally, I'm trying to use it to get a good grasp on how the whole bus thing works while it's free. Things are a lot less intimidating once you've experienced them once, I only wish I had more time on Fridays to take free rides.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 102);">This week I decided to take the #5 bus out to South Portland and explore the mall area. I really needed a trip to the dollar store more than anything else, but used my free rides to dart around town and get a tiny bit of shopping done. I mostly just wondered around the mall, trying to avoid all of the people in the kiosks trying to sell me countless objects that I did not need. (Isn't that all the mall is really?)</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 102);">I ended up walking down to JC Penney on a quest for some new socks (I'm a sock snob, don't judge me). On my way I was approached by an older lady, who was giving out brochures on pool installations, I said no thank you and kept walking, and as I did the women yelled out "I hope you have a VERY MERRY CHRISTMAS!" I turned back and said "You too," but I was sort of amazed that this woman was so chipper, doing what I would consider a crappy job, amongst all these shoppers.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 102);">I went into JC Penney, delighted that my socks were on sale, picked up a couple other things, and went outside to wait for my free ride home. As I sat there I found myself irritated by all the other people outside waiting for a bus. The 20-somethings smoking DIRECTLY in front of the No Smoking sign, the teenagers with their runny nose kids, the man smoking something (I believe of the illegal nature) only a few feet away. Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse this extremely overweight woman came and stood about 6 inches from me (I was sitting on the bench) and began to fart, loudly, and remarkably close to my face...I kid you not. When I looked up at her she said only "It's a cruel world" I decided it was time to put on my iPod before any of these people tried talking to me. I had this fleeting thought about how I should try harder to love all people, but I just couldn't bring myself to engage.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 102);">The beauty of headphones is that they do not even have to be playing anything in order for people to THINK you are out of commission, I use this opportunity sometimes to "accidentally overhear" other people's conversations. Soon another woman, carrying two Hannaford bags came out and began speaking to the first woman (the unfortunate one with Friday Night Flatulence). They were making small talk, and it became clear that these women had taken the bus together before. The first women thanked the second for "the card" and mentioned that she still had it, and had written a reflection on the back, after their meeting. I really didn't think anything of this at the time.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 102);">Just then the bus pulled up. I picked a seat about half way back, and the lady with the bags came on right after me. She asked me if the seat next to me was taken. I got slightly irritated, since she had already proved herself to be a chatty woman, and there were plenty of empty seats on the bus, but I said no, and moved my bags aside.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 102);">Sure enough, the woman asked me a question, looked at me, and immediately apologized for disturbing me while I was listening to my music. It was then I began to soften. I pulled off one ear bud, and answered her question, fully expecting, to put it right back in. But instead, I found myself asking her questions, and before I knew it we were engaged in a full fledge conversation. I soon found out that she was the woman who was handing out pool fliers in the mall earlier that night. I figured if all else failed, talking to her would be my "good deed" for the day, after all, she probably needed someone to talk to.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 102);">During our 20 minute ride we talked about many things. </span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 102);font-family:times new roman;" ><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 102);">I found out that she lived alone, with her cat, Rebel. She had been married 3 times, her last husband was abusive, and she didn't have any kids. Both of her parents had passed away, and any random cousins she had were living in the South, she keeps in touch with only a few of them.</span></span></span></span><span style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 102);"> We talked about books, and the library. I told her how she could check her e-mail at the library. We talked about siblings, and genealogy and the appropriate ways to discipline a child. We talked about pets, and Christmas trees, and dancing. We talked about my work, and she went on and on about how great that was, and how proud I should be about myself.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 102);"> I found myself actually enjoying talking to this woman (something that VERY rarely happens to me), and as we got onto Park Avenue I realized I would have to leave soon, and I didn't even know her name, and so I asked. Her name was Linda, her friends called her "Jo." I told her my name, and that I hoped I ran into her around town someday. She said that if that happened she would bring me back to her apartment to meet her cat. She then said to me "You're going to think I'm crazy, but I really like making new friends, and I really like Christmas, so I'd like to give you something." She reached into her crumpled grocery bag and handed me a card, I opened it and there was a cartoon drawing of a silly reindeer (Linda said he'd dipped into too much egg nog), on the inside of the card it said "Hope your Holidays are the Best" and scrawled underneath in red pen "Merry Christmas, Jo."</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 102);">I seriously almost started to cry. I'm not generally moved by things, but something about the connection I had with this woman was remarkable to me. As I went to get off the bus I had this strange desire to stay with her, or at least to find out how I could get in contact with her later on, if for no other reason than to return her kindness. I didn't though, I just said goodbye and left.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 102);">And so my friends, another story that started out with what I thought was a good deed, talking to a poor lonely old lady. However, I think I was the poor one in this situation, thinking I was better than everyone else, not wanting to hear what was going on around me. Now that I think about it, I think that's probably the most full conversation I've had in quite sometime with anyone, and it didn't revolve around all the terrible things that are happening in my life and in the world. It's amazing how nice it is to be able to have a conversation with someone, and just be able to talk, without any barriers (after all chances are you'll never see them again). Lately, I've been feeling kind of crummy, and have been giving weird elusive answers to simple questions like "how are you." I want everyone to know, I'm not actually that great, but I don't want to get into a conversation about it...unless you REALLY want to. It's amazing how when given the opportunity to focus on the joys, the challenges seem to drift away.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 102);">It seems as though Linda ,"Jo," has been spreading Christmas cheer to lots of people, and maybe she won't ever remember me, but I think it'll be a long time before I forget the gift that she gave to me.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 102);">Later, and probably less sappy days,</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 102);">Erica</span><br /></span></span></span>Erica Tobeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11278650248080482982noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2431815626600161847.post-25222036476105592912007-12-03T11:24:00.000-05:002007-12-03T12:46:50.356-05:00Breaking an Entering<span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family: times new roman;">It all started with a good deed (doesn't it always?) My friend and ex-roommate was house sitting for her sisters in Portland off Washington Ave this week while they were in Mexico. However, she had to work Friday night, so I agreed to go out there and check on the animals and stay the night. I had Friday off work because the furnace in my building had a hole in it, so I decided to go out in the afternoon when it was light out...probably a REALLY good thing I did.<br /><br />So I got to the house with no trouble, unlocked the door and went inside. I debated rather or not I should lock the door behind me, but since I was in an unfamiliar place, I decided it couldn't hurt.<br /><br />I went into the dining room, put my bag down, and took off my coat and hat and placed them in a chair. I then went to find the dog. I put on her collar, and headed to the back door, opened it, stepped out, and realized immediately that the door locked behind me. The keys and my cell phone were in my jacket, in the chair, inside the house. It was NOT warm outside. Let's just say I used a lot of words that are not appropriate for children....<br /><br />I let the dog do her business while I thought about what to do. First I went around and checked all the doors twice, hoping that maybe they weren't REALLY locked, no luck. They had this deck that was several feet off the ground I had to pull myself onto to check the sliding glass door, which of course, was locked. I checked the door to the basement, still no luck.<br /><br />Then I remembered that my friend said there was an extra key somewhere, I figured it couldn't be too hard to find. So I began looking in all the little nooks and crannies around the house. I even got a stick and ran it along all the tops of all doorways and places I couldn't reach in hopes that the extra key would magically fall down. I crawled onto the deck again to check the doors, I even took the cover off the grill in hopes that maybe the key would be hiding in there. Nope.<br /><br />I check all of the doors one more time, and as I walked by the side of the house, I saw my jacket sitting there right by the window. I realized that if I could get the window open even just a little bit, I could slide my coat out and be warm, and have the keys. So I began my quest to pop the screen off the window. I couldn't get my fingers underneath the screen so I ended up using sticks and rocks to pry the 5 foot screen off the window. Next I pushed up on the window, and it wouldn't budge. So I got a chair off the deck to stand in, hoping that the extra height would give me the leverage to open the window. Turns out, the window was locked too.<br /><br />Did I mention that the entire time I was doing this I was holding onto the leash of the 60 pound husky. I would have hooked her up somewhere but apparently she had been lost earlier in the week and they had to call animal control, so I didn't want to risk losing the dog on top of my other problems.<br /><br />At this time I decided that I probably wasn't going to be able to break into the house, so I did the only other thing I could think of, which was going door to door to the neighbors in hopes that one of them could help me. I knocked on the door of the next door neighbor, who took forever to answer, I tried to explain the situation to her, and asked if I could use her phone. She was on her way out, and began making phone calls on her cell phone to explain to people why she would be late. All conversations began with "well there's this girl in my house..."<br /><br />The problem, at this point, was that I couldn't remember anyone's phone number. I finally remembered the number for the Administrative Assistant on campus, I figured she could help me SOMEHOW, except that she wasn't in. The only other number I could remember was for the old Circle K adviser, who happens to be the partner of the Hall Director in the building where my friend was working. So I called and the person who answered was the ONLY person in the office who didn't know who I was, and therefore was not eager to help me, or give out any phone numbers. Finally I convinced her to give me the phone number to Residential Life. When I called Res. Life a work study student answered, who gave me the WRONG number, and not actually a USM number at all. So I called Res. Life back (good thing I wrote the number down), and someone answered who I knew, and said "You're in luck, Erica, Danielle is right here" I WIN!!<br /><br />So she told me where the key was and proceeded to ask me a bunch of questions, but I didn't want to get into it at that point, because I was still in the lady's house. So, I went and got the keys, and went to grab the dog (who I tied up, and BEGGED not to move) because I didn't think the neighbors would appreciate her company. So I untied the dog, and started walking, and accidentally dropped the leash, and she started running. So I chased her down, and luckily caught her before she got too far. I let her into the house, and went back to tell the nice lady I got in, because she told me she wouldn't leave until she knew I was safe.<br /><br />What a day. Luckily, it was early in the day, otherwise, it would have been colder, darker, and I have NO IDEA how I would have gotten a hold of Danielle, because all the offices would have been closed. AND turns out the nice lady next door is the aunt of Norman Thombs, Mechuwana Camp Director. The next house down is Cliff and Jane Ives who I know from when Cliff was serving at Green St. UMC. In the words of Danielle "the street is full of Methodists"....I guess I was pretty safe after all!<br /><br />Later Days,<br />Erica<br /></span></span></span>Erica Tobeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11278650248080482982noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2431815626600161847.post-43856703834854865772007-11-21T12:33:00.001-05:002007-11-21T12:41:55.922-05:00Does Elmo Need a Ticket?<span style="color: rgb(204, 51, 204);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Last weekend I took a bus to Vermont to visit a friend. I love the</span><span style="font-family:times new roman;"> bus, because what is a 3 hour car ride becomes a 7 hour bus ride. AND,</span><span style="font-family:times new roman;"> when riding the sketchy bus (the Greyhound) there are no movies to</span><span style="font-family:times new roman;"> pass the time, the only entertainment they provide are the passengers</span><span style="font-family:times new roman;"> themselves, and trust me, most of the time that is worth more than a</span><span style="font-family:times new roman;"> movie rental.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;"> When I boarded the bus in Boston on Monday and watched this middle aged lady sitting </span><span style="font-family:times new roman;">across from me stuff all of her belongings into the overhead compartment. Everything, </span><span style="font-family:times new roman;">that is except for a small plastic GAP bag with a tie on the top. She took that bag and </span><span style="font-family:times new roman;">stood it up right in the seat next to her very carefully. She was treating that bag with </span><span style="font-family:times new roman;">such care, I suspected she would buckle the bag in, if she was given the chance.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;"> Anyway, I was busy playing this game where I pretend to be unfriendly, so that no one </span><span style="font-family:times new roman;">else will sit with me. I had my stuff spread all out, my headphones were on (to make it </span><span style="font-family:times new roman;">look like I was listening to my iPod even though my battery had died), I was fiddling </span><span style="font-family:times new roman;">with my cell phone. Everyone else had just about settled in when I heard this strange </span><span style="font-family:times new roman;">high pitched voice. I didn't sound human, I looked around, and the only kid on the bus </span><span style="font-family:times new roman;">was a 4 year old playing with a toy gun. No muppet-ish voices coming from that direction.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;"> So I sat back down, and heard it again, this time in the form of an evil laughter </span><span style="font-family:times new roman;">"hahahaha". I look around again to see where it was coming from, this time the lady with </span><span style="font-family:times new roman;">the GAP bag looks at me and smiles. At that point I started to wonder what in the world </span><span style="font-family:times new roman;">was going on. So watched the lady. She was just sitting there, not touching anything </span><span style="font-family:times new roman;">and the voice goes off for a third time. I must have had a strange look on my face, </span><span style="font-family:times new roman;">because she turned, and looked at me and said "Don't worry dear, it's just my Elmo," as </span><span style="font-family:times new roman;">she motioned to the bag. WHAT??</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;"> Apparently, she had a talking Elmo doll in the GAP bag, she offered no other explanation, </span><span style="font-family:times new roman;">and the thing kept talking through our journey, but I didn't question it again.<br /><br />The question of the day is...Does Elmo need a ticket to ride the greyhound? Something to ponder.<br /><br />Later Days,<br />Erica<br /></span></span>Erica Tobeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11278650248080482982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2431815626600161847.post-48253490345038312242007-10-30T00:06:00.000-04:002007-10-30T00:34:11.026-04:00Think Before You Act<span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">When I was in college I developed a lot of strange habits, and rituals around a lot of different things. Some of them I have broken out of, and some I do instinctively, even a year and a half later. One of which involved elevators. Every where I went I seemed to be surrounded by them. My sociology professors always encouraged us to to strange things in elevators and watch how people behave differently when someone in society breaks out of the social norms (we did a great class experiment on this....but that is a story for a different time).<br /><br />Anyway. Somewhere in this mix I got this brilliant idea to stand really close to the door, when inside the elevator and practically press my nose against the crack where the two sides of the door meet. I then focus my eyes really closely on the crack in the door. The best part is, when the door opens (and it ALWAYS opens) your eyes go totally haywire...because they don't know what to do. It's really an interesting thing, really, I'm not just a big weirdo. Generally speaking I only did this when I was either alone in the elevator, or when it was so crowded that no one noticed I was doing what I was doing. In the chance that there were people on the other side of it was almost alway certain that they were chatting or looking at fliers on the wall...or something, and didn't notice my little trick. Whereas, people on the inside of the elevator are ALWAYS facing out, toward the door, ready to escape in mass exodus form (this will come into play later).<br /><br />So tonight I was in the new hall with Maria waiting for the elevator to take us downstairs, and for some reason I decided that I should press my nose against the OUTSIDE of the door while we waited for it to come up and retrieve us. I clearly wasn't thinking....because here comes the elevator and sure enough their are people inside. Several people, all staring at the elevator doors, ready to leave. I was really embarrassed and in the way of their departure and didn't know what to do at that point. So I just ran into the elevator and faced the wall (not the door) until they all got out, so I wouldn't have to see them. Maria, who didn't notice the nose to the door thing, just thought it was strange that I barreled by them all to get in, without letting them leave first.<br /><br />Just imagine for a moment what you would think if you were inside the elevator, and when the doors open there was a person standing DIRECTLY on the other side of the door...right in the middle.<br /><br />Oooooh, proper etiquette, generally not my strong suit.<br /><br />Later days (but hopefully not later nights, it's already past my bed time.)<br />Erica<br /></span>Erica Tobeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11278650248080482982noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2431815626600161847.post-28273833049980452132007-10-28T21:02:00.000-04:002007-10-28T21:32:32.199-04:00Stille Nacht<span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);"><span style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:130%;">So I spent the majority of the day cleaning, doing laundry, and running errands. Around 5 I decided to take a break and run to Rite-Aid to pick up some Halloween candy. It was so nice outside, a real fall day. I shuffled through the leaves, and took deep breaths of cold air. I rocked out to my iPod. When I got to the store I hit the pause button on my iPod, as I usually do, finding it difficult to concentrate on too many things at the same time. Plus, the store was playing Fergie's Big Girls Don't Cry....and I couldn't help but divert my attention to that.<br /><br />So I'm wandering around the store, looking for the best deals, and peanut butter M&amp;M's (which they apparently don't sell ANYWHERE), when I get really confused. I SWEAR I can hear Silent Night playing in the store (along with Fergie). I assume it's my iPod and hit pause once again, and it disappears. I keep looking around picking up two-eight packs of delicious Halloween goodness and AGAIN hear Silent Night. This is when I realize that either I'm totally insane, or I'm incapable of hitting the pause button, so I inspect the iPod. Turns out the device was on "hold" so I was hitting pause but it wasn't doing anything, and the volume was just low enough that I couldn't hear it most of the time. Ok...crisis averted.<br /><br />Fast forward a couple minutes, and picture it: I am walking down Congress Street, back to my apartment, with a bit of a spring in my step, because I am enjoying the day. I am wearing my Life is Good Pumpkin hat, and swinging a bag full of candy from side to side as I shuffle through the crunchy leaves that have fallen onto the sidewalk. I turn the iPod back on, and start the last played song over again, so I can hear it from the beginning. I continue down the street and notice people giving me weird looks, but I'm not sure why...until...I realize that I am singing Silent Night, loudly...in German, as I go. Apparently, this is an unusual occurrence....who knew.<br /><br />I guess I become totally oblivious when I turn the iPod on...<br /><br />Reason number 523 not to use it when I ride my bike. I think I would get hurt.<br /><br />Later Days,<br />Erica<br /></span></span></span>Erica Tobeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11278650248080482982noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2431815626600161847.post-455896922767453022007-09-26T23:02:00.000-04:002007-09-26T23:45:04.854-04:00The Dangers of Making Dinner<span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-family: times new roman;"> So Monday Night I decided to make some dinner, not just the regular pasta/veggie burger classic, but an actual dinner. I decided to make stir fry. Seems easy enough right? Well...not for Erica. <br /><br />It all starts with my chicken phobia. This irrational fear extends itself to all meats, but chicken is the only one I ever eat. (I was a vegetarian for a long time, and though I now like the taste of chicken, I don't like the very thought of it, before it's cooked and on my plate). Anyway, I generally buy a package of chicken, and split it into 3 parts when I get home, and put them in separate baggies, in the freezer. That way, it's all ready to go when I want to cook one little piece. But for some reason, when I bought this package (sometime near the first of August) I just threw it in the freezer. I've been procrastinating cooking this chicken because I knew that it would require some work to get the frozen pieces apart, since I still only wanted to cook one section.<br /><br />So I take the meat out of the freezer, cut open the package, tear off the disgusting blood catching pad and attempt to use my kitchen scissors to cut the frozen chunks apart. (I ALWAYS use kitchen scissors when dealing chicken because it's quick and easy...something about cutting through the flesh with a knife, makes me unable to eat it afterwards). Of course, the scissors don't work. So I try my second best effort...grabbing the 1.27 pounds of meat, with my bare hands and banging it as hard as I can against the counter repeatedly. After a few really hard bangs, and an all out throw against the counter, one piece breaks away from the other two. I continue banging for a while, and then realize, on piece is all I need. I'll deal with the rest later, and I returned them to the freezer. This is just the beginning.<br /><br />At this point my hands are freezing, literally, so I begin what I think is a good warming technique...rubbing them together. Do you know what happens next? Take a guess.<br />All that chicken goop that was on my hands goes flying up and sprays my entire face. I almost got sick....Thank God I have glasses.<br /><br />Somehow I manage to recover from all of this, I put a pot of water on to boil some rice, I put the chicken in the microwave to defrost, I've got my iPod on, and I'm working on some dishes....and then I start to smell something....smells like burning.<br /><br />I automatically assume its the microwave, go closer, don't smell anything, check out the toaster, nothing. I go back to doing the dishes, and it gets worse. So I stop the microwave, and inspect the plate, and the chicken, and NOTHING. At this point I think maybe it's coming from another apartment, so I go back to the dishes.<br /><br />And then I remember the rice, now boiling like mad...I look, and sure enough...flaming pot holder on the stove. So, again, I do what I think is best, shake the pot holder (to extinguish the flame), and put it out the window (so I don't set off the smoke alarm). That thing seriously smoked for 20 minutes before it went out. Sure I could have put it in the sink full of water, but who thinks of that?<br /><br />WOW! Now is time to start the stir fry. I'll spare you the dramatics and just tell you, that I turned on the wrong burner and lighted a paper towel on fire. My question is..why was there so much crap on the stove? And how did I manage to start two fires before cooking anything.<br />(By the way, I've been cooking my whole life, for my whole family, it's not like I'm incompetent, I guess I've just had a lot on my mind, and I never have been so great at multitasking!)<br /><br />I finally get the whole thing under control, everything is cooking happily, I taste the chicken, and decide it's really quite chewy. I can't tell if that's because it had been in the freezer a long time, or because I defrosted it too long in the microwave and it got partially cooked and therefore bad. I decide I went through WAY too much effort at this point to let it ruin my dinner.<br /><br />I go to put everything together and realize that the "MINUTE RICE" is still crunchy after 30 minutes of cooking. That stuff makes me sooo mad. I follow the directions EVERYTIME, and I always have to add more water and cook it for like an hour. Stupid brown rice.<br /><br />Anyway, in the end everything turns out great. I have a great stir fry, that I just finished tonight, after three nights of eating it. Still.... I think next time I might invest in some spaghettios!<br /><br />That's all for now.<br />Later Days,<br />Erica<br /></span></span>Erica Tobeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11278650248080482982noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2431815626600161847.post-32661564757011460952007-09-23T20:39:00.000-04:002007-10-30T00:36:19.568-04:00Repaying the Gift<span style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);"><span style="font-size:130%;">So I had been thinking about creating one of these "blogs" for quite some time now, as a place to relay my thoughts, ideas, ramblings, funny stories etc. to the world. I do not intend to use this as a recitation of every activity and interaction I have, because really, no one needs to know, and I don't have the time for it. Anyway, the same day I was contemplating the creation of this site a good pal sent me a message strongly urging me to do the same. The coincidence was too strong...and I can't say no. So here it is.<br /><br />You may wonder why I would name a blog "repaying the gift" so I will tell you. Many of you know that I use the internet as a means to keep up to date (some may say "stalk") with people who have been, are, or will someday be, in my life. I thank the internet for giving me that opportunity, and here I will repay that gift, by allowing others to "keep up to date" with me. I am also repaying the gift to said "good pal" who's blog I have been following for years. Though I am not sure anyone will read this with the dedication that I have read hers, I hope that it provides her (and the rest of you) with a few laughs, some mild entertainment, and if all else fails, a good way to waste a few minutes during the day.<br /><br />I could take this whole "repaying the gift" thing to another level. In a way, I look at my life and realize all the good in it. I'm healthy, I have a job, food, and a nice place to live. I have people that care about me. I am safe, and warm. I have more books than I have time to read them. I have more shoes than is reasonable. I have more gadgets than necessary. I would like to repay the world for all the good (and in many cases, luxuries) that I have, but I have no money. So, I dedicate myself to helping others, to repaying the gift. I'm sure I'll talk about that, in the days to come, because well...it's what I do.<br /><br />In the meantime, enjoy. Share the page with anyone who would care to read it. If you have insight as to who these things (blogs) work, let me know, I'd love the help.<br /><br />Oh, and I take requests, you know, if you want to hear my opinion on something let me know. I'll write about it. Already on the list are: washcloths, the story of me saving the child from a burning building, and of course, anytime I hurt myself. I also want to ask questions of the readers and see what kind of responses I get. Let's make this fun! Ok, that's all for now.<br /><br />Later Days,<br />Erica</span><br /></span></span>Erica Tobeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11278650248080482982noreply@blogger.com2